Brown Rice and Kerosene
by FoxFireside
Summary: A storm is battering Melbourne, the power is out, and Jack and Phryne are searching for a way to keep themselves occupied.
1. Chapter 1

_Written in the dark with the last of my laptop battery power during an impressively heavy Queensland thunderstorm. The title is from a great song by the 1980's Australian political-folk-rock band "Redgum"._

...

A particularly bright flash of lightning precedes the going out of all the lights.

Sitting customarily close in the parlour, Jack and Phryne freeze with whiskey glasses in hand. When the lights fail to return, Jack feels his way to the window and peers out at the street.

"It's not the fuses. Every house on the street is dark." He returns to his seat, thankful for Phryne's hand outstretched in the darkness to guide him around the ravenous maws of furniture legs waiting to attack.

"Well then. How _are_ we going to keep ourselves amused until the power is restored?" It doesn't matter that all Jack can see is the faintest outline of her face: he can _hear _the salacious smile she wears.

"Might I suggest we start by finding some candles?" he says, skipping over her flirting despite the way her leg presses not-entirely-accidently against his own.

"Spoilsport," Phryne mutters, but she stands and grips his hand tight in hers to lead him to the kitchen.

Dot and Mr Butler are already there, a pair of thick paraffin candles flickering to life as Dot applies a match. The kitchen door bangs open and Bert and Cec stride in looking pleased to be out of the storm. The rain follows them in and Dot scolds them into the corner of the kitchen, where they stand like two naughty schoolboys until Dot unearths some old towelling for them to dry off with.

"It's coming down right heavy out there, Miss," Cec says from under the towelling as he dries his hair. "We was on our way to the Grand for a beer when the bloody hail started."

"How bad is it?" Phryne asks.

"Well there ain't no lights for at least three blocks and the poor sods what've left cars parked on the street are gonna find themselves short a window or two come morning," Bert replies, tipping water from his boot and sparking another telling off from Dot.

"Well, thank goodness we are all here, safe and – for the most part – dry," Phryne says, adding firmly, "And I expect everyone to stay and make themselves comfortable while this storm is raging." Jack knows Bert and Cec are in no hurry to go back into the rain and he suspects Phryne's warning is directed at him. And, yes, decorum says he should be leaving before the evening gets too late, but he's not exactly been a stickler for the rules lately. As for the storm, he's seen worse. But the prospect of cold water guzzling down his collar and soaking his shoes seems particularly unattractive when he could be here, warm and dry and in the company of Miss Fisher.

No. Phryne has no need to worry that he will excuse himself from the house anytime soon.


	2. Chapter 2

They abandon backgammon after Phryne loses her third game in a row. Jack tries not to look smug about it, but judging by the grin Dot throws his way from where she sits embroidering, he is not succeeding.

The kerro lanterns Bert and Cec have scrounged up from the box room provide plenty of dull yellow light to the parlour. Declaring themselves famished by their treasure hunt, Bert and Cec have returned to the kitchen to pillage the last of the day's scones and jam, heartily supplemented with bread and scrape by an obliging Mr Butler. The occasional sound of betting lingo drifts from their direction and Mr Butler challenges their understanding of the odds for next week's horse races.

"Aha! I knew I'd put them here somewhere." Phryne waves a pack of playing cards triumphantly, having disembowelled the contents of a writing desk in her search. Jack can see Dot twitching as she supresses the instinct to immediately tidy the mess.

"How's your poker game, Jack?" Phryne drops into her seat and begins dexterously shuffling the deck.

"That rather depends, Miss Fisher. What are the stakes?" His lips quirk into a smile as she is momentarily taken aback. But he realises the danger he's placed himself in when her look of surprise turns to one of scheming calculation.

With a corner-of-the-eye glance at Dot on the other side of the room, Phryne leans forward. Jack finds himself trying valiantly to keep his gaze from Phryne's now _very_ visible décolletage.

"What would you suggest, Jack dear?"

He sees her words for what they are: simultaneously a dare and an out if he wishes to take it. A hard look at Phryne's face makes up his mind.

"A dare. The loser should have to fulfil a dare of the winner's choosing." His voice is decisive but he feels silly as he speaks: expecting Phryne to dismiss the idea as childish. Clearly, he has forgotten who he's speaking to.

"An excellent idea! Let me see...should we establish the forfeits now, or wait until the winner is declared? Wait, I think. The not knowing makes it more fun, don't you think?"

When she fixes that look of false innocence at him, Jack is hard pressed to remember that this was his idea. He agrees to the terms of the game and takes the cards she deals him.

Ah. A pair of threes, two face cards and a seven. Not a good start.

Jack glances at Phryne. She returns his gaze, peeking over the top of her fanned cards with something akin to the way a lion would look at an especially tasty gazelle. It does _not_ fill Jack with confidence.

…

A three-of-a-kind in the next hand improves Jack's hopes only for them to be dashed as Phryne slaps down a straight with an ace kicker. Looking dourly at his pile of match 'chips', Jack throws his own cards onto the table in defeat.

"Shall we say…first to three hands wins the challenge?" she asks as he deals their cards.

"Considering that you've already won two, that hardly seems fair."

"Fine then. First to five."

"I'm sure you're already plotting your winnings, Miss Fisher."

…

The score is two – three in Phryne's favour when Dot folds away her embroidery and stands.

"I don't think I can do any more in this dim light. I'll go see that there are camp beds made up for Bert and Cec for the night. That rain is still coming down something awful. And if you don't need me any further tonight, Miss, I might go to bed myself."

To be honest, neither Jack nor Phryne had heard the rain or wind for quite some time, being too caught up in their game (and _that_ is a double entendre in itself) to notice the storm still howling outside the house. But Phryne nods her thanks and assent to Dot, who leaves the room with a 'goodnight' to Jack and Phryne.

She takes one of the hurricane lanterns with her, leaving Jack and Phryne sitting in a reduced pool of light with the room cosily dark around them. A comfortable silence tinged with anticipation falls between them as Phryne idly shuffles the deck. A rumble of thunder shakes the window glass and startles them into action.

Jack clears his throat and gains his feet. "Perhaps I should check on your household – ensure that Miss Williams doesn't need any help with those two rabble rousers. I hope Mr Butler has locked up securely. That wind could tear a window open, given half a chance."

"Yes…" Phryne seems distracted, but she shakes it off and stands as well. "I'll make sure Dot makes it to her room safely, if you would assist Mr Butler? And…and perhaps we can then relocate to my bedroom? These lanterns don't really cast enough light for a room as large as this."

The idea of being alone together in her bedroom, at eleven at night, with the household asleep and only a pair of kerosene lanterns to light proceedings – it is absolutely dangerous in the most exciting way. What can Jack do but agree?

)()(

_Author's Note: Never heard of 'bread and scrape'? It's simple – whatever you're applying to the bread (jam, golden syrup, peanut paste) is scraped on then scraped back off (as a food saving measure), leaving just a thin taste of the condiment on the bread. It was common amongst households that couldn't afford to go through food too fast. I've an idea that Bert and Cec sometimes eat it out of familiarity and red-raggin' nostalgia, now that they can afford more than 'scrape'._

_And….the power is back on! Can't complain, as we've had no rain for 4 months. Last night we got 33mm of rain over the course of about 5 hours, including 5mm in just 10 minutes. Yay!_


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: I apologise to anyone who was waiting on updates. Rest assured, I'm not the sort of person who holds chapters randsom for reviews. Having moved house, I've (still) got no internet and am cadging internet time at my parents' house. Also, having been ill, I've not been able to create a backlog of chapters to post :(_

_BelleLitteraire: I've left poor Hugh on duty at City South :) Someone's got to keep an eye on the rouseabouts._

_I am so, so grateful to everyone who's taken the time to read, and/or to review. It makes such a bright moment in my day to realise people are reading and - oh! - enjoying my writing! Thank you, thank you, thank you all._

_This may be the last chapter, if it feels right, or there may be another one or two to go. I'm ambivalent. Anyone with an opinion either way, please share. _

)()()(

It takes Jack and Mr Butler fifteen minutes to check that all the windows are latched and to lock and bolt the front and kitchen doors. Flushing a little, Jack notices that Mr Butler and Dot have _not_ set up a camp bed for him in the warm kitchen, where Cec and Bert are already snoring. When Jack broaches the subject, Mr Butler gives him one of those inscrutable looks for which he is famous and simply replies that he expected Jack had already made arrangements with the lady of the house in regards to sleeping arrangements.

Jack wisely decides not to pursue the topic further.

…

When he makes his way up the stairs and down the hall to Phryne's bedroom, he finds her already waiting. She has found time to change out of her dress and is wrapped instead in a silk kimono that dips indecently low at the neckline and wraps sinuously around her form.

Having left his hat and overcoat in the hall, Jack had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves prior to assisting Mr Butler with the windows. Compared to Phryne he is overdressed, but he feels bare when she runs her eyes approvingly over his body.

"Make yourself comfortable," she all but purrs, perching on the bed and laying the cards in front of her, clearly expecting him to take his place on the bed in front of her.

Jack pauses for a moment. _To hell with it._ He quickly removes his shoes and socks before sitting cross-legged on the plush bedspread.

Phryne smiles at him, glad he has not muttered some excuse and removed himself to a spare room for the night. She deals the cards, allowing her hand to brush his as she does so. Jack shifts in turn, his knee pressing against Phryne's as he accepts his cards. His hand is poor; hers excellent. He tries to bluff his way to a win, but she knows his tells too well and he is soon relieved of another small fortune in matchsticks.

If his bluff was less convincing than it could have been; his discards clearly unwise – well. No one would accuse him of _trying_ to lose, would they?

With the score four – two, Jack is in imminent danger of having to pay forfeit. In his heart of hearts, he has to admit that the idea excites him. Ideas of what task he would set Miss Fisher as forfeit, if he were to win, flit across his mind in a veritable parade of indecency and smut.

Phryne watches Jack's face go slack, his eyes dark and pulse jumping, and wonders if he could possibly be thinking of the possibilities she has rather blatantly laid before him. His eyes snap back into focus, his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he holds out his hand for the card deck.

Phryne hands the cards over and leans back on her elbows against the pillows while she watches Jack's strong hands cut and shuffle the pack. He glances at her and his hands stutter slightly in their movements as he takes in the image she presents. The silk of her kimono is soft enough to show every line of her body. It drapes over her breasts, shows the peaks of her nipples, slides aside the reveal a creamy thigh to his piercing gaze.

It is all Jack can do to deal the correct number of cards.

Phryne investigates her cards with interest, sitting up slightly straighter. Jack appears to be frowning at his own hand, but he schools his face into neutrality when he sees her looking. Phryne smiles. Jack appears to have drawn a bad hand. Victory may be hers sooner rather than later.

Jack frowns. He's drawn the perfect hand – a royal flush. Throwing a game usually goes against his nature, but he's had enough of the game (and the _game_) they are playing and is ready for Phryne to win and claim her prize- whatever that may be. Oh, he might be able to win, if he tried, and he would then demand that Phryne dare to kiss him as forfeit – something to supplement the too-short, too-distracted kiss he's shared with her in less than ideal circumstances. But his courage has deserted him and he is unsure if he would be brave enough to voice such a dare if he won. Would he take the coward's way out and waver, suggesting a banal dare instead of that which he truly wants?

Easier, then, to let Miss Fisher win and allow her, and fate, to pull him out of his comfort zone.

Jack places a high bet, happy to let Phryne assume he is bluffing. He doesn't even get a chance to throw away some of his face cards as Phryne goes all in and demands a show of cards.

A split second of internal debate, and Jack flings his royal flush face down on the bed as Phryne reveals a four-of-a-kind. "I find myself thoroughly beaten, Miss Fisher," he lies, eyes dark with something akin to a challenge. "The forfeit is mine to pay."

As she claps her hands together, pleased with her win, Phryne gives Jack a look that says maybe she isn't as convinced by his sudden loss as he'd hoped. But she says nothing.

And indeed, the silence draws out as Phryne studies Jack's face for a moment, her gaze as sharp as glass. Jack feels hyperaware: nervous and excited and worried and…

Phryne lays back against the pillows, extending a hand to draw Jack down beside her. She sees the uncertainty in his eyes, the way he moves as if unsure whether to follow where she is leading him. But he lies down beside her, his arms stiff at his sides, his face turned towards the ceiling.

Jack tries to calm his breathing but the longer he lies motionless beside Phryne, the more his earlier doubts crowd his mind. He is about to beg off hearing the forfeit for another time (daytime, preferably in public, far away from soft mattresses and dim kerosene lighting) when Phryne grips his hand in hers and speaks in a halting manner unlike her usual confidence.

Jack was expecting her forfeit to be intimate. But not like this.

"Jack, I dare you…I…I dare you to talk to me. To tell me about what makes you happy. What keeps you awake at night on the bad days and what you hope for on the good days. That is my forfeit for you."

Her words make him consider fleeing the room after all. But when he thinks about pulling his hand out of her grasp, of dashing down the dark stairs and out into the raging storm with nowhere to go but the Station or his own echoing house…

He is surprised by just how much he wants to unburden himself to someone who might understand.

Jack can't bring himself to look at Phryne as he speaks, but he draws their joined hands up to rest on his chest as he begins to share himself in a way he has not been able to for years.

He tells her about the trenches and of being captured and sent to a POW camp.

He tells her of the harshness of the camp commander and of the simple kindnesses of one of the German guards who shared cigarettes and news with the prisoners (_"He was just like you and me."_)

He tells her of the heartache of losing his marriage on top of everything he'd already suffered and of the doubts he felt – still feels – about whether or not the Jack Robinson who came back from the war is a good man.

He tells her about how he slowly came to the realisation that he would probably never have the children he'd dreamed of and the way he'd resigned himself to a life alone.

He tells her of the way he sometimes thinks that if he saves enough lives – stops enough evil – it might quiet the voices in his head that tell him he is not worthy of life and love.

It isn't until Phryne tugs him over so they are resting on their sides, face to face, that Jack realises he is crying. Ashamed, he buries his face against Phryne's shoulder. What must she think of him? But the hand that strokes the back of his head is gentle and the hand still gripping his own tightens in wordless companionship.

…

The power comes back on at around three in the morning, sending overhead lights glaring down on empty rooms and the refrigerated icebox whirring back into life.

But Jack Robinson does not notice. Emotionally wrung out, he remains dead asleep in the welcoming, protective arms of Miss Phryne Fisher.

()()()(


	4. Chapter 4

When Jack wakes, it takes him a few moments to recall the reason for his gritty eyes. As to why he is lying mostly dressed on a silk covered bed with Phryne's arms wrapped around his back and his face buried against her neck, he's not sure whether to be mortified or happy about the circumstances that led to this.

But he cannot bring himself to regret the things he revealed to her last night. If Phryne now sees him as weak or pitiful then so be it, because he has not felt such a lightness of spirit for years and he would not give the feeling up for anything.

Jack sighs and relaxes into the pillows. Did Phryne have different plans for last night? When the power went out, had she formed a plan with an intention to seduce him? Or had their heartfelt talk been all she wanted from him?

Regardless of the answer, Jack resolves not to turn away this opportunity or waste it like he has in the past. There is a rumble of retreating thunder outside the window, the wick of the kerosene lantern has burned down to sooty nothing, and Jack drifts back to sleep with his lips pressed against the soft skin of Phryne's neck and her scent surrounding him.

)()(

The next time Jack wakes it is because Phryne's hands are gripping hard against his back as she mutters in her sleep. Her nails are sharp through the cotton of his shirt, but the real worry is the tears he can feel soaking through the fabric where her face is now pressed to his chest.

Phryne Fisher, she of the big heart and the infinite compassion, is having a nightmare.

"Phryne. Phryne, wake up, sweetheart," Jack murmurs. He smooths her hair back from her face and squeezes her arm. "Wake up, sweet."

She chokes on a cry as her eyes open and there is a moment of blank fear in her eyes. But then she comes back to herself, the nightmare fading out, and her body relaxes even as her tears flow more freely.

"Jack," she whispers, as if to say his name too loudly will cause him to disappear like an apparition. Her hands release their grip on his back in order to cup his face. Making sure he is real. Making sure this is not going to end like so many dreams of the Inspector – with an empty bed.

"Do you often have nightmares?" he asks gently. The stubble on his jaw scrapes her fingers as he speaks, adding another proof that he is no ghost or desperate dream.

"I don't like to advertise the fact that I'm not entirely in control of my own thoughts." Phryne closes her eyes as Jack's thumb brushes over the fading tear tracks on her face. What did she ever do to deserve this man? He wraps his arm back over her waist and turns onto his back, his action causing her to slide across the silk sheets to rest at his side with her arm and leg thrown over him and her head on his chest. Phryne's places her hand over his heart and feels its strength through the two layers of cotton separating her from skin.

"You could tell me about it, if you like. A wise lady once showed me how beneficial it can be to share such things with a trusted friend."

She can't help smiling a little, but she tilts her head to look up at him and raises an eyebrow. "Only a friend?"

"Well." Jack wraps both arms around her to keep her pressed close against him and stretches down to lay a kiss on her hair. "Perhaps more than that, if she'll have me."

"She'll consider herself dammed lucky to do so," Phryne admits. With the fizzingly wonderful promise of an imminent change in their relationship, she settles into his warmth and finds the words to describe the dreams of being helpless in the face of dying soldier boys and cruel Frenchmen.

)()()(

As is customary, Dot knocks at the door when ten o'clock in the morning rolls around with no sign of her mistress. But it is the Inspector's voice that calls her into the room.

The sight that greets her is of Phryne fast asleep in the middle of the bed, her arms wrapped around Jack who is sitting up against the headboard with a scrounged copy of _Shakespeare's Sonnets_ held open at page 78 in his free hand. The other hand rests protectively on Phryne's head.

"Good morning, Miss Williams," Jack says, his face open and honest. He is not willing to hide the change in circumstances between himself and Miss Fisher, and here is the first test.

"Good morning, Inspector. Did you sleep well?" Dorothy always expected to one day find the Inspector in Phryne's bed. As far as she's concerned, if Jack and Phryne make each other's hearts as happy and light as Hugh makes her, then there can't be anything too wrong with it. Even if they aren't married in the eyes of the Lord. And she is very glad (_and possibly a little disappointed – the Inspector is a handsome man…) _to find that Jack is dressed in shirt and trousers. It would be rather difficult to meet his eyes on cases if she'd seen him lounging around naked.

Jack's mouth spreads into a smile that matches Dorothy's own and he answers her question without hesitation: "Better than I have in years."

)()(

_The page number is from my (admittedly 1961 copy) of "Shakespeare's Sonnets". The sonnet in question is number LXXII. It's theme is of feeling unworthy of the love of a wonderful woman ._

_The response was overwhelmingly in favour of continuation. There will be one more chapter after this one._

_THANK YOU to everyone who has taken the time to write their thoughts and reactions in a review. Every review helps me feel that my writing *just might* be worthwhile sharing._


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